tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3730438791913370832024-03-06T06:24:18.868+00:00Stuff Inside My HeadAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03369502029912013282noreply@blogger.comBlogger51125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373043879191337083.post-87086567194500712382014-01-05T18:45:00.000+00:002014-01-05T20:46:00.782+00:00Pox in KnoxJust a quick note to let everyone know that the first of my <a href="http://greeneggsandhorror.com/">Green Eggs and Horror</a> stories, Pox in Knox, is now available on the <a href="http://greeneggsandhorror.com/?p=165">podcast</a>, and as an added bonus, the story is read by my son!<br />
<br />
Go on, check it out! And if you like what you hear, say it to someone. Post a link, write a review, take out an ad in Variety. I'm not fussy.<br />
<br />
Of course, if you like what you hear, you could also get your own copy of the book, in ink or pixel!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03369502029912013282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373043879191337083.post-67739207468923035792013-10-16T19:54:00.003+01:002013-10-16T21:40:37.946+01:00Like Green Eggs Aren't Scary Enough to Begin With?!<span style="font-size: large;">It wasn't all that long ago that Pete came up with the idea. It was back in January, and he just threw it out there: Seussian horror stories. I don't know if he expected anyone to take him seriously, but right away, something went "click" way in the back of my head, somewhere between those warm and squishy childhood memories and that place where "warm and squishy" means something else entirely. </span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span id="goog_1962031155"></span><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I think I had my first draft finished in about two hours. It just sort of fell out, pulsing and oozing on the floor. You know, all warm and... yeah. Annnyway...</span><br />
<br />
<div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Uc3CAlLYNQKQ1e3Oe5RnI3Zc0qtLmxrGCB1Hj6clk0I2S7G0h4n8SwyR3O6fKJfL_Gopg1EQkj7wO1jJB90g1_fMXHg_DbrkdNcJK5r4SAiM6t_OKMo0-sRH1PqJNDP4JZt3DowfO-t3/s1600/Green+Egg+1+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Uc3CAlLYNQKQ1e3Oe5RnI3Zc0qtLmxrGCB1Hj6clk0I2S7G0h4n8SwyR3O6fKJfL_Gopg1EQkj7wO1jJB90g1_fMXHg_DbrkdNcJK5r4SAiM6t_OKMo0-sRH1PqJNDP4JZt3DowfO-t3/s320/Green+Egg+1+001.jpg" width="232" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An early cover idea</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;">Somewhere along the way, this shifted from "messing around with a fun idea" to "hey, this could be a for real book!" and <i>Green Eggs and Horror </i>was born. I not only got the chance to include two stories but to do the cover art. <b>And</b> I get to read for the podcast as well, but more on that when one of my episodes come up. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm not throwing this up just to shill - I mean, I am going to shill, and remorselessly no less - but I've got to say, this has been a lot of fun. Pete invited me in on most of the process, and this was my first experience on this side of the anthology. My anthology experience is more along the lines of "nope, no reply today" variety. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">And - as I am a man of my word - now for the shill: if you're so inclined, the book is up on Amazon now (<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Green-Eggs-and-Horror-ebook/dp/B00FUU9MCW/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1381696610&sr=8-1&keywords=green+eggs+and+horror"><i>Green Eggs and Horror</i> on Kindle</a>), and you can follow the link on the <a href="http://greeneggsandhorror.com/"><i>Green Eggs and Horror </i>website</a> for a copy printed on genuine imitation truffula paper. And just to prove that it's not all about the money, every story in the book will feature on the free podcast. Episode 1 is up now with a story called <i>Passenger</i> by Christopher Banyas.</span></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03369502029912013282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373043879191337083.post-34398297424937799392013-01-11T23:27:00.002+00:002013-05-09T01:32:06.635+01:00The High Cost of Savings<span style="font-size: large;">You know you're middle aged when conversations about home improvements start to sound interesting. </span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">In my defense, it is slightly geeky, and I've always loved gadgets and gizmos, so this may not be entirely old-mannish. But yeah, it's still pretty domestic. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A friend of mine was talking at length about solar power. Not so much a chat as a full on Q&A session. Not in general, but in a practical This Is How It Works Right Here And Right Now sort of way. He's done his homework, and he's very clearly a fan.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">I was always intrigued by the idea, but to be honest, it was more of a That Would Be Kinda Neat idea than a You Can Really Do This And It Might Even Be The Smart Move thought. It's not as if it's a pressing issue, right? I've definitely got higher priority business to sort before I... um... pimp my... crib... izzle? (Gimme a break. Middle aged, remember?)</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">And to be honest, I wasn't all that sure solar power made a lot of sense in Ireland. Apart from the cartoonishly gray skies, we're awfully far north, and that means we've got some pretty short daylight hours in the winter. And since we're only generating during daylight hours, when we're most likely to be out of the house, how much would we really benefit? It's a cool idea, but I'm not sure it's terribly practical.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">As it turns out, that just ain't so. The panels don't need direct sunlight, so the cloud cover isn't a problem. And as for the timing, that's not a big problem either. In the last few years, Ireland's done a bit of rewiring, and now you can sell electricity back to the grid, meaning you get the benefit even if you don't use the juice yourself. For the typical family, solar pays for itself in about four or five years. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Sounds pretty good. Of course, the question came up: "Are you set up with solar?" No it wasn't me. I thought the question was kinda silly, given the way he went on. I mean, this guy has compared prices, looked into grants, checked out just how DIY friendly the job is. This are not the words of someone who decided solar just wasn't for him.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">So yeah, I was a little surprised at his answer. "No," he said. "I can't afford it. Saving money's just too expensive."</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Talk about your conversation killers. Between the actual panels, converter, two way electricity meter, the wiring, it takes an investment of a couple grand to get started. And as he mentioned earlier, it's at least four years before the savings reach that level. He can't afford that kind of cash, so despite knowing that he could run his house with an fuel free energy surplus, he's still using fossil fuel generated electricity. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">And that was my big takeaway from that conversation. This country - and every other country, for that matter - is filled with people ready, willing and even eager to take steps that would reduce their own monthly bills, the global dependence on a dwindling fuel supply, and air pollution. It's no magic solution, but it's a pretty good start, and painless to boot. This is the right thing to do. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">But too many people can't afford to do the right thing, and the ones that can afford it won't really feel the benefit. Face it. If you can comfortably afford what can amount to the price of a small car, you aren't really going to notice the savings on your electricity bill. The people who stand to benefit the most are the ones who have to decide which bills get paid this month. Imagine what one less bill could do for them. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">I understand that Ireland does have grants available for solar panels, but the only information I could find was for solar heating, not electricity. The heating, by the way, does need strong sunlight for full benefit, meaning it's not terribly practical. But for what it's worth, that grant is worth €800. Assuming the electric panels have a similar deal, that's just not enough make a difference for most folks. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">So for now, my friend the solar fanboy does without and continues to spread the word. And I keep thinking middle age</span><span style="font-size: large;"> thoughts about my house. </span></div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03369502029912013282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373043879191337083.post-92053450746822045962012-12-14T23:41:00.000+00:002012-12-14T23:41:34.127+00:00Thoughts on a Friday in December<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">So.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I guess by now, you’ve seen the news. Most likely, you’ve seen more of it than I
have. I stuck around long enough to hear
about the man with motives I don’t pretend to understand, that he walked into
an elementary school with several guns and used them to end thirty or so lives,
many of them barely started. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Every time this sort of story comes up –
and it does seem to come up an awful lot, doesn’t it? Every time, my instincts steer me straight to
gun control. Yes, I know. “Guns don’t kill people. People kill people.” But people are killing people with guns. Efficiently.
Guns provide people with the opportunity to kill a lot of people quickly
and without much chance of retaliation.
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Guns are weapons. They exist to make things dead. If you don’t want things to die, then guns
don’t make much sense. We don’t allow
free access to explosives, or poisons, or nuclear material because these things
can easily endanger the public. Taking
away these tools doesn’t end violence or violent impulses, and just about any
tool can be dangerous with the right combination of determination and
ingenuity. That doesn’t mean that we
should make it easy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">But to be honest, I think I may be missing
a trick here. Sure, I do think we’d be
better off with fewer guns. Lots of
countries around the world manage to get on just fine without guns, but if I’m
being honest with myself, that’s only half the story. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Still other countries manage to give the public
access to firearms without daily reports of homicide. There’s something different about the <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">US</st1:place></st1:country-region>, something
that goes beyond availability and opportunity.
The gun may be the tool of choice, but the fact is that Americans choose
to use their weapons on each other. A lot.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">The whole reason for firing a gun is to
kill. The only reason for having a gun
handy is to be able to kill. Call it
defense if you like, but only in a “best defense is a good offense” sort of
way. If you want a genuine defensive
weapon, get a shield. Guns are for
ending lives. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Come to think of it, I have to wonder if
the whole “defense” euphemism might have some bearing. Defense sounds a lot more justifiable than
killing, like it was him or me, like I had no choice. We do it as a nation, we do it as a
community, and we do it as individuals. We
soften the language to feel better about the choices we make. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">I’m not suggesting for a minute that all or
even most shootings are in self-defense.
I’m suggesting we have decided as a culture that maybe killing isn’t so
bad after all, and this is one of the ways we rationalize it. So that defense mentality, that sort of him
or me, ruthless dog-eat-dog mentality can justify a mugging or a vendetta just
as easily as gunning down an intruder. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">Now, I doubt any of us is likely to relate
to the man who walked into that school today, but the reason he was on the news
today is because this is a man who decided that killing was a viable option,
and he’s hardly unique for that. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03369502029912013282noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373043879191337083.post-7700936999423957942012-10-26T16:26:00.003+01:002012-10-26T16:32:22.680+01:00H2O 2.0<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;">From time to time, I drink bottled water.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;">And yes, I do feel silly, thanks for
asking.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;">Yes, I know that it’s just someone else’s
tap water, no matter how many times advertisers mention clear mountain
springs. I know that the only
requirements for entering the water business are a case of plastic bottles, a
garden hose, and audacity. I’m aware
that I’m paying an 88 billion or so percent mark-up. I realize that I’m adding to a growing pile
of refuse that doesn't need to exist.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;">But when I’m out and about and I don’t want
a hot drink or a waxy paper cup filled with carbonated high fructose corn
syrup, when I just want something to make me not-thirsty, I don’t make a
fuss. I don’t stare pointedly at the
sink in plain view right next to the stack of glasses or fast food cups. I don’t point out that I want a drink, not a
logo. I cave in to peer pressure, to
corporate pressure, to the likely disdain of the person behind the counter and
lay down my money to pay for something I could have for free.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;">We've gotten to the stage that this is
becoming a moot point. Free water – in
public at least – is very nearly a thing of the past. Once upon a time, public drinking fountains
were everywhere. I couldn't tell you the
last time I saw one. These days, we have
water coolers and delivery men with back braces with trucks full of oversized
bottles, and we pay for the privilege, as if we never heard of modern
plumbing. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;">Even in the home, where there are no
excuses, we still spring for “the good stuff” and leave the sink for washing
dishes. Or we run
perfectly safe and clean tap water through a filter to make it gooderer, as if
it’s substandard, as if it’s not suitable for drinking unless money changes
hands. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">So I play along and I buy the stupid
bottle, the one that might as well say “Free water inside”, because I’m not
buying a drink. I’m buying a brand name. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;">I’m an idiot, but for whatever it’s worth, at least I’m not a
thirsty idiot.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03369502029912013282noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373043879191337083.post-22689834569023959642012-10-22T23:23:00.001+01:002012-10-22T23:23:11.166+01:00This One's For You, Donn<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;">I met Donn
at my father-in-law’s funeral.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;">When you’re
an ex-pat, it becomes impossible to avoid eavesdropping on your native
accent. That familiar twang cuts right
through the murmur of the local crowd and parks itself right in your ear. So when I heard that American accent behind
me, I couldn’t help but listen in. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;">He was chatting
with another of my father-in-law’s friends who happened to be in the insurance
trade, asking about the ins and outs of driving in <st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Ireland</st1:place></st1:country>. Did he need to get an Irish license to drive
over here? Did he need to get a license
to buy a car over here? Could he get insurance
on a <st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">US</st1:place></st1:country>
license? Questions met with little more
than head scratching and brow furrowing from a man who didn’t come across much
in the way of transatlantic business. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;">Naturally,
I chimed in. I’d asked the very same
questions not that long before, after all.
So I was able to give him some solid advice and confidently answer all
the follow-up questions. We got to
talking, after the funeral, and again when we decided to meet in the pub the following
day.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;">Donn first
met Padraic (that’s PAWrick, my father-in-law) years before thanks to a shared
love of Irish history. In particular,
Donn was interested in Sean MacEoin, and when he found a book by Padraic on the
subject, he decided to reach out to the author.
It was the beginning of a great friendship, a contagious friendship that
drew in their wives, children and even grandchildren. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;">I’d heard about
Donn and his wife Susan, knew about their regular trips to <st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Ireland</st1:place></st1:country>, trips
that included visits with my in-laws, but I never had the chance to meet them
while Padraic was alive. And of course,
I never heard any of this from Donn’s perspective. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;">When we met
at the pub, Donn came armed. He was
loaded with pictures and books and documents, each with some connection to
Padraic. Each was an artefact, a record
of some profound moment in history – national, personal or otherwise – and he
recounted the story behind each with unguarded, wide eyed enthusiasm. And when he came with me to visit my
mother-in-law after, he told the same stories again, with the very same passion
and excitement. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;">Donn was,
perhaps as much as anything else, a packrat.
He collected memorabilia, books, letters, photos… things. More than that though, Donn collected
stories. He treasured the significance
of objects, the human connections, the story behind the story. This was the passion he was so eager to share
with us, that day and in the years to follow.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;">Donn and
Susan continued to make annual visits to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country -region="-region" w:st="on">Ireland</st1:country></st1:place>, visits that always
included us. I never saw Donn more than
once a year, and when the timing didn’t work out, we wouldn’t see each other at
all that year. But I always looked
forward to their visit, always wanted to spend the day in what was invariably
great company and great conversation.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;">Their visit
this last time was especially poignant.
It was the first since my mother-in-law died last spring. It was also his 65<sup>th</sup> birthday, and
it was a brilliant night. We ate and
drank and yammered away the night, and even though they stayed later than
usual, the end came too soon.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;">Donn passed
away this weekend. I miss him. I wasn’t expecting to see him for nearly a
year, but I miss him. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;">I wish I
had words for Susan that could help, that weren’t so uselessly trite. I wish I could put a bow on this, offer some
perspective, some comfort, some way of making his absence less of a hole in the
world. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE"><span style="font-size: large;">Maybe the
best I can manage is to take a leaf from Donn’s book, to revel in the connections,
and to tell this story the best I can. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03369502029912013282noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373043879191337083.post-72746923138861773102012-10-20T16:05:00.002+01:002012-11-03T19:16:03.852+00:00Humans Need Not Apply<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">Remember all those
World’s-Fair-Home-of-the-Future-brighter-days-techno-daydreams? Those black and white sci-fi B-movies where some reassuringly Brylcremed gentleman who kept his cigarette case in his lab coat pocket described a new utopia where technology paved the way for a life of peace and leisure (usually just before everything went all monster shaped and spoiled the whole afternoon)</span>? These
were already the stuff of nostalgia by the time I showed up, but the dream
lived on, and you know what, gang? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">We
did it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">Welcome to the future, kids. Hope you brought something to do.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">The dream came true. We've taken huge strides in our pursuit of the easy life, a life free from labor. We work faster and with
better results than at any time in history, all because we've done our level
best to make work a thing of the past.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I can remember hearing nervous rumblings of
now-what worry as far back as the 70s.
Robotic assembly lines worked faster and more reliably than people,
without coffee breaks, sick days or those pesky human rights to contend
with. Unions weren’t exactly abuzz with
possibility. They were scared for all
those manufacturing jobs, and as it turns out, with good reason.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">That was about the same time someone
figured out that people were willing pump their own gas if it meant saving money, that cheap beats good as sure as rock beats scissors . No-frills labels started showing up in the grocery stores. Superstore savings won out over Mom and Pop service-with-a-smile. Everyone was looking for new ways to shrink that price tag and pump up profits. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">Turns out one of the easier
corners to cut is man-hours.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">Skip ahead. These days, online shops are beating old school retail bloody,
and store clerks are an endangered species.
If one central customer service center can handle those few customers
unable to make their purchases, if one warehouse can ship anywhere in the world,
why would anyone want to mess with all those retail outlets and all the headaches of stocking and
staffing the same shop over and over again in town after town? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">We're not losing every job out there. We aren't becoming slaves to our robotic masters. That’s not where
this is leading. There will always be
some need for some human effort and oversight, but we are getting much, much
more efficient. We can meet higher
demand with fewer man-hours, and we're only going to get better. That means
that, as we go on, jobs are going to get harder to come by. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The upshot is that manpower is cheaper. There are more man-hours available for sale than there are jobs to fill those hours. Great if you’re running a business, not so much if you’re running a household. It takes more time at work to pay the bills, never mind disposable cash or savings. When there just isn't more work available, folks have to make do with less. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">Business owners are likely to tell you that labor is still too expensive, and it may very well be that the price of hiring someone has gone up where you live. To be honest, I haven’t the faintest, and that’s not what I’m talking about. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">I'm not talking about what the employer pays out. I'm talking about what the employee gets for an hour of his work, about how many hours it takes to fill the fridge and keep the lights on, about how many hours it takes to stay afloat.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">Once, families were able to live comfortably on the sold time and effort of one family member. For most of us, that’s never going to be possible again. It takes more hours these days to meet the bills, never mind disposable income and savings.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">And since we’re talking about a
consumer-based system, fewer man-hours means less money in consumer pockets,
which means less demand. It’s going to
be harder to keep the system ticking over as we go on.</span><br />
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">This has been building for a while, but we've managed to keep this trend at bay by creating new demands (cell phones, anyone?), and with a reliance on disposable goods (cell phones, anyone?), but we can’t rely on new gotta-have-‘em trends to keep feeding the system forever. How many times do you honestly think the public will <a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=373043879191337083" name="_GoBack"></a>be willing to repurchase the same song in a new format? </span><br />
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">It seems unlikely to me that this trend
will reverse. Business owners will only
create jobs if they can’t meet demand with the workforce available. That demand requires customers willing and
able to buy. If we strip mine the
workforce, taking maximum production for minimum cost, that population
won’t be able to fuel a consumer market.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">We’re heading for a post-employment world,
where time and effort no longer have enough value to draw a livable wage. We’re coming to a place where we need to find
new ways of valuing ourselves, ways that don’t involve trading cash for
work. I have no idea what form that new
system will take, but I do know the current system can’t hold on forever. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">For what it's worth, looks like we'll have plenty of time to figure it out.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03369502029912013282noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373043879191337083.post-59722586751383074992012-10-03T17:30:00.000+01:002012-10-03T19:25:29.368+01:00That Nameless Dread<b id="internal-source-marker_0.5599124738946557" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh, hi! It’s . . . um, you.</span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Okay, I have a confession to make. I have no idea what your name is. </span></span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></b>
</span><b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Not an inkling. </span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yes, I’m aware that you introduced yourself ages ago. I know we spoke at length, and as I recall, two people greeted you by name as they walked by. I know you had that rhyme, or that little alliteration thing, very clever and oh so catchy, making your name nigh impossible to forget. </span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I got nothing.</span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For what it’s worth, you’re not alone. I forgot just about everyone. I remember maybe six names from high school. Tops. I’ve worked with people side by side for years without ever learning their names. A few good friends managed to stick, maybe a face or two from this job or that town every few years. That’s it. If you’re not one of those people, I have no idea what to call you.</span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And believe it or not, most people never notice. </span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You talk with folks, say hi, chat about the weather or the kids or Sports Team X. Maybe you say the other person’s name, but if it doesn’t come up, who’s going to notice? I’ve successfully gone years without anyone realizing I just don’t say say names.</span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Once in a very great while, someone works out that I never picked up that name years ago when introductions were first made, but most often, people come and go out of my life none the wiser.</span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t know why names in particular refuse to lodge in my memory, but I do have a theory. You see, I bounced around a lot over the years. </span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A lot. </span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Currently, I'm living in my thirtieth home and my third country. Before I finally settled here, my record in any single residence was three years. Come to think of it, I think my record for any single town was three years. It took me over thirty years to put down roots that took hold, and even then, there was still plenty of bouncing around on the work front. </span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">So every few years, my life gets a brand new supporting cast. Maybe a few familiar faces stick around for continuity, and there might even be a surprise cameo from way back in Season 2, but for the most part, it’s a reboot. New place, new people, with next to no connection to the past. </span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Maybe I just filled up on my quota in my youth, meeting all those kids, classrooms at a time. </span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Maybe you can only hit the reset button so many times. </span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m not trying to make excuses, but I really do want to understand how this blind spot formed. Generally speaking, my memory’s pretty good. I can pull some pretty arcane trivia from Whence the Sun Don’t Shine. Quotes, useless factoids, pop culture references. That sort of thing. But it seems that my brain stopped trying to hold information that - judging by all previous experience - will be irrelevant in a few short years. Maybe even less.</span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And so, sorry, but I probably don’t remember your name. </span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Unless of course, we’re online. I'm actually pretty good at remembering names when they're staring back at me in Facebook blue. </span></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03369502029912013282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373043879191337083.post-54160418644683062402012-06-26T23:58:00.001+01:002012-06-27T08:30:57.597+01:00(Fool's) Gold Is Where You Find ItA while back, M'Boy came to me saying he wanted to write a story but didn't know what to write. So we invented a game. We would each draw a quick picture which we would then trade. Then we'd have to write stories about what we saw. <br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For any writers out there struggling with writer's block, 7 year olds come highly recommended.<br />
<br />
Today, we were at it again. This time, he was trying to steer me into a superhero battle with a picture of Iron Fist. (Yeah, I know, most of you never heard of the guy. Just work with me here.)
<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
But one of our ground rules is that we get to write whatever we want as long as we use the picture as a jumping off point, and to be fair, we both have a knack for being more than a little contrary when the mood take us.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So I didn't come up with a battle royale with a four-color hero and techno ninjas across the skyline of Manhattan. Instead, I let my imagination wander. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It should be noted that when you let your imagination wander, it may very well get lost. Consider yourselves warned.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Once upon a time, like last Wednesday, these evil aliens snuck up on the Easter Bunny and stole his basket. They got everything: cards, keys, phone, and of course all that chocolate. Fortunately, they only got three eggs, because... well, you know, you shouldn't keep all your eggs in one basket, especially on the street.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>When Jeff - oh, that's the Easter Bunny, Jeff - when he realized what was happening, he chased the aliens. Rabbits are pretty quick after all, but the aliens ran into Jeff's home and locked the door. </i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>Well, Jeff banged on the door and shouted, but let's face it. He's a rabbit, not a big bad wolf, so there wasn't a whole lot he could do. In the end, he just wandered off.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>A while later, there was a knock at the door. One of the aliens poked an eyestalk through the letter slot and saw a grouchy, slouchy pizza delivery guy.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>Now, aliens like these aren't all that crazy about chocolate, and they think eggs are kind of scary. Don't ask me why, they just do. But they sure do love pizza, so they opened the door. Splat. The pizza dropped on the doorstep, and the aliens all crowded around to slurp it up off the ground. </i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>Then they heard a slam and a click. Sneaky Pizza Man Jeff had them locked out.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>They really should have left then, but the pizza was just that good, so they kept eating until the police came and hauled them off to Holiday Jail.</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
<i>The End</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br />
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03369502029912013282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373043879191337083.post-51425701328074147022011-10-21T19:36:00.000+01:002011-10-21T19:36:14.510+01:00Ninja XSo, as it turns out, Li'l Me's not only a storyteller, but he's already got an eye on getting published. He asked me to help him put together a story today, and when we finished, he asked if I could help him put it online.<br />
<br />
Which I can.<br />
<br />
This tale comes to you from the mind of my 7 year old son, with only minor editing on my part. I helped with the spelling and asked a few questions along the way, but the rest is all his. <br />
<br />
Enjoy!<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: 26.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-IE;">NINJA X!</span></b><b><span lang="EN-IE"><o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE">In a land far, far away there lived ninjas.<span> </span>They were in a war with Zorgon and his skeleton army.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE">The best ninja of all was Ninja X, but he was on a secret mission to destroy Ninja XOX, a skeleton ninja with darkness in his bones and rage of terror.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE">The ninjas attacked Zorgon’s castle, but they were falling quickly!<span> </span>The skeletons were too powerful!<span> </span>Someone had to help them.<span> </span>Who could save them?<span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE">Luckily, there was one ninja who hadn’t fallen.<span> </span>Ninja Nine, the lightning ninja!<span> </span>The power of the sun gives him lightning powers.<span> </span>Ninja Nine killed all the skeletons in the blink of an eye, but his ninja friends rose from the dead.<span> </span>Ninja Nine was surrounded, but he saw something that could help him: the skeleton ray!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE">The skeleton ray was a huge laser that could make people rise from the dead.<span> </span>Zorgon must have used it on his friends.<span> </span>Ninja Nine saw it just outside Zorgon’s castle gate.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE">As he ran over to it, he got grabbed and thrown into the dungeon.<span> </span>He had lost!<span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE">But suddenly, he remembered his lightning sword.<span> </span>The lightning came out and broke all the bars of the cage, and he escaped.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE">But then, the evil skeleton ninjas saw him as he escaped.<span> </span>They came charging at him with their magic abilities.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE">Suddenly, Ninja X came charging through the doors.<span> </span>Ninja Nine and Ninja X worked together to defeat them and used the skeleton ray to turn them into humans again.<span> </span>Then they went to Zorgon, and the biggest battle of their lives.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE">They found Zorgon waiting for them in the throne room, sitting in his chair with his magic sceptre.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE">“Ha ha ha!” laughed Zorgon.<span> </span>“You cannot defeat me!<span> </span>I am the most powerful of them all!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE">“No you’re not,” said Ninja X.<span> </span>“We’re going to kick you in the face!”<span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE">Zorgon waved his sceptre, and all the ninjas except Ninja X got thrown to the wall and couldn’t move.<span> </span>They were trapped!<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE">Ninja X threw all his ninja abilities at him at once: fire, water, air, lightning, earth, and even the power of darkness.<span> </span>And then Zorgon had fallen.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE">The ninjas had won and Zorgon was never to be seen again.<span> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03369502029912013282noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373043879191337083.post-51551616801794130902011-09-13T23:19:00.002+01:002011-12-12T01:29:59.199+00:00Everybody Sing!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9TIartB57mDIqayomZdzH2aSZCEMb5NuhQjdjjaOfRDVJWxdeMcon-2V9GLCPKx6s1Xg2q3o0T1GxE89CTRE-HQa9eikdTmPDH8zJhyT5cjqBLa7lJ1ARWz5Qh9EzalZlfw-AFWF9JlFg/s1600/Agent+A.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9TIartB57mDIqayomZdzH2aSZCEMb5NuhQjdjjaOfRDVJWxdeMcon-2V9GLCPKx6s1Xg2q3o0T1GxE89CTRE-HQa9eikdTmPDH8zJhyT5cjqBLa7lJ1ARWz5Qh9EzalZlfw-AFWF9JlFg/s320/Agent+A.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 14px;">♪♫♪ Asparagus! A-spar-a-gus!!! </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 14px;">♪♫♪</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 14px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 14px;">Yeah, I know. I'm seeking help. </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03369502029912013282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373043879191337083.post-75967986859184499982011-09-04T19:30:00.004+01:002011-09-05T11:20:10.779+01:00Ten Years Later<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">“Your country’s blowing up.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">Ten years ago, on a run of the mill Tuesday afternoon, the man who would become my father-in-law called me with this message. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">Back then, I was working as a carer, long shifts with odd hours. As luck would have it, I was off that day. When the phone rang, I was killing time on the Playstation, navigating my way through an especially tricky bit of Crash Bandicoot. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">No greeting. No preamble. Just “Are you watching this?” I think I said something like “Watching what?” and he said “Turn on your TV. Your country’s blowing up.” <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">I had moved to <st1:country-region w:st="on">Ireland</st1:country-region> from my native <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Pennsylvania</st1:place></st1:state> two years earlier, and it occurred to me that this might be one of those jokes I don’t get. I’m still not sure what you’re supposed to say in this situation, but I settled for something involving “thanks” before saying good bye and hanging up.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">The game was still on pause, and I almost went back in. It took me ages to get that far, and I hadn’t reached a save point yet. Instead, I left the game on pause and changed the channel.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">I flicked to the news and was met by a tight view of smoke billowing from a huge hole in the side of the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">World</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Trade</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype></st1:place>. Commentators were saying something about rescues and emergency services.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">I was underwhelmed. Not that it wasn’t a big deal, just oversold. A burning skyscraper, even a famous one, hardly lives up to “Your country’s blowing up.” Even when they switched cameras and I got my first clear view of the other tower burning as well, I nearly switched back to the game. This looked like just another overhyped infotainment spectacle from a nation that turned a slow drive in a white Ford Bronco into an international media event. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">I was going for the remote, had my thumb on the button, when the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">South</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Tower</st1:placetype></st1:place> collapsed into a plume of smoke and dust, and all thoughts of sensationalism fled. Details began to seep in. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">Airplanes did this. Someone had commandeered airliners and turned them into missiles, and in true supervillain fashion, turned them on <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">New York</st1:place></st1:state>. The Pentagon too.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">And this just in, another flight crashed in <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Pennsylvania</st1:place></st1:state>, my home state. Not sure where yet. Stay tuned.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">“Your country’s blowing up.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">The next hour is a blur, all shock and confusion, filled with worst case scenarios and second guessing. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">My then-fiancé took a few minutes to call me from work, to see if I’d heard and to let me know she was going to be late. She was with one of those big multinationals at the time, and she spent the day tracking down and accounting for every employee travelling that day. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">A small, selfish, petty piece of me resented her and her job that afternoon. While I played the helpless spectator in front of my television, she was busy. She was useful, and she was distracted. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">Mostly though, I just wanted her. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">I was somewhere 3,000 miles east of Back Home, and for the first time since moving, I felt alone. Truly alone. My friends, my family, they were all on the other side of the Atlantic, and the person who I most wanted to be with, the person who made coming here worthwhile, was unavailable. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">I ended up at her parents' front door, timid and small and asking if I could hang out there. After work, my not-yet-wife joined us and we all sat together in front of the TV. We watched the very same news recycling over and over in the absence of new insights and developments. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">I didn’t remember to switch off Crash Bandicoot until morning.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">After ten years, ten years of fear and anger and confusion and controversy, after all this time, I’m still in mourning. For the 3,000 dead, yes, but for so much more. Ten years ago, the place I called Home disappeared under a wave of dominoes set in motion by four passenger airplanes. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">“Your country’s blowing up.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">He was right. My country did blow up that day, and it kept burning in the months and years that followed. In its place is a foreign land, with strange ways and customs. The fact that it so closely resembles the place I knew makes me even sadder. Familiarity makes it hard to overlook the scars, hard to ignore the shell shock. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">I haven’t crossed the <st1:place w:st="on">Atlantic</st1:place> in over a decade. I’ve never submitted to a pat down, never had to take off my shoes so that my fellow passengers could feel safe. I suppose I’ll go some day, but not soon, and not to stay. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-IE" style="font-size: large;">Home means something else now. Something closer in attitude, if not longitude, to the Home I remember, and miss, and love. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03369502029912013282noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373043879191337083.post-78042917645933209262011-08-21T14:52:00.003+01:002011-08-21T14:56:59.374+01:00Every Eight Seconds 2.0Slowly but surely getting the hang of this whole audio thing, and I decided to go back and clean up this, the first audio piece I posted here. As it happens, this is also my voiceover demo, so if you know anyone who might be interested (hint hint)...<br />
<br />
Enjoy!<br />
<br />
<object height="81" width="100%"> <param name="movie" value="http://player.soundcloud.com/player.swf?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F21580755"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed allowscriptaccess="always" height="81" src="http://player.soundcloud.com/player.swf?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F21580755" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="100%"></embed> </object> <a href="http://soundcloud.com/henry-gaudet/every-eight-seconds">Every Eight Seconds</a> by <a href="http://soundcloud.com/henry-gaudet">Henry Gaudet</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03369502029912013282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373043879191337083.post-53173604623595523612011-08-05T14:01:00.004+01:002011-08-05T20:31:27.793+01:00Why I Write<div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;">Another "new to here" post. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;">If you're interested, you can still find this one, along with a lot of other good stories in the 2010 Writing4All Anthology:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;">http://originalwriting.ie/bookshop/fiction/general-fiction/writing4all-the-best-of-2010/</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;">Check it out, and tell 'em Henry sent you.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;">No, it won't get you a discount. Sorry.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"><br />
</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;">Why I Write</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">by Henry Gaudet</span></div><div><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br />
</span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Growing up, I spent a lot of time with my grandparents. They had a place in the Middle of Nowhere, a few acres of woods and a small lake. Thirty or forty years on, thanks more than anything to a mythic sense of nostalgia, that place seems idyllic now, my own personal Narnia, my Hundred Acre Wood. But all that came later, after being fitted for my grown-up pair of rose-coloured glasses. Back then, it was just Grandma's.</span> <br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Grandma's did indeed lie over the river and through the woods, where neighbours were friendly, but far flung and rare. Back then, the world was just a little bit bigger, and the Middle of Nowhere a little further from the Edge of Anywhere. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Not a lot of company for a young boy who wanted to play. There weren't any other kids for miles around. My sister was there, but well, she was my sister, so clearly that wasn't an option. I was going to have to find another way to amuse myself.</span> <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">What I did have was one big honkin' playground. The woods were filled with trails and hidden clearings to explore. The rest would have to come from imagination. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">And so, during my time there, I chased monsters, fended off super villains and cosmic disasters, and generally defended the world from Bad Things which tended to show up in the woods, just out of sight of the house.</span> <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Between alien invasions and crime waves, I spent my time drawing. Sometimes, I illustrated my own courageous deeds, or came up with new adventures based on these earlier exploits. Sometimes, I just drew stuff I saw on Saturday morning television. I went through my share of crayons, markers, pencils, the odd bits of chalk, just about anything that would leave a mark.</span> <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">There was no doubt that stories were going to matter to me. There was just no escaping it. But the clincher, the deal-closer, the reason I decided that I would have to tell my own stories, that was Grandad.</span> <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Late one evening, just a little before bedtime, I was sitting on the front porch swing, watching the fireflies and looking for all the world like a scene out of Andy Griffith. Grandad came out and joined me, sitting in his rocker. We sat there in the twilight for a few minutes before he lit up a cigar and he started to tell me a story.</span> <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">He spun this amazing tale, about a farmer with a talking dog who fended off giants and dragons and became a hero by accident. It was funny and scary and magical, and he had me hooked from the very beginning. It was years later that I learned the story wasn't his own. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Tolkein's <span class="comcodeitalic"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Farmer Giles of Ham</i></span> was one of Grandad's favourite books. He knew the story by heart, well enough to tell me off the top of his head and make it his own.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Grandad would tell me lots of stories over the next few years. Some were his, some weren't. Over the course of a summer, we followed the adventures of Bilbo Baggins. He told me stories over the dying embers of campfires and in the flash of thunderstorms, stories of Arthur and Perseus and Coyote. He told me stories of his youth, the kind of true stories that never really happened. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">He showed me how to make magic.</span> <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Of course, over time, kids outgrow Neverland. Mostly. Oral storytelling will always be something special to me, but I adore a well told story, regardless of the medium. A good story, out loud, in print, or on the big screen, is still magical and can bring me right back to that porch swing. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I’ve spun a few yarns of my own over the years, but it’s only recently that I began to create my own stories that might be worthy of the fireside. Stories to share with my little boy, and stories to share with strangers. I took the scenic route, but I was always going to wind up here.</span> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">It's in the blood.</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03369502029912013282noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373043879191337083.post-88082472285920823902011-07-21T12:35:00.003+01:002011-07-21T22:11:45.523+01:00To Whom It May Concern<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Dear Universe, </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">There seems to be a bit of confusion. My fault, really.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">As you might recall, I said a while back that I’d like to be a “writer”. Now, granted, there are a number of ways that might be taken. For instance, I was literate at the time, so I could have been justified in dusting off my hands, saying “Job done” and wandered off to the fridge for a self-congratulatory beer.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Instead, I set off down a likely path and started stringing words together in the hopes that they would all come together to make a story, then trying to convince others that I had in fact made a story worth reading and paying for the privilege.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Yeah. Turns out, that’s hard, and not at all what I had in mind.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">You see, I said I wanted to be a writer. I never said anything about writing. I was looking for something a little more Great Gatsby. You know, that guy with the elbow patches and an open calendar, the one who tends to show up in guest spots on all those old TV mystery shows. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">That guy. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Not Too-old-to-be-the-starving-young-artist-typing-between-family-and-work-and-no-you-probably-haven’t-seen-me-in-anything-unless-you-followed-that-link-I-just-posted. That guy has to work. There’s no way he’d have the time for leisurely drinks by the marina, much less helping Matlock or Quincy or Fletcher solve a murder.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Thanks for giving this your full attention. I have some requests on the whole Rich & Famous thing too, but if we can sort this out first, the rest should go a bit smoother.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Cheers.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03369502029912013282noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373043879191337083.post-80766337870345786012011-06-16T19:17:00.003+01:002011-06-16T23:22:51.536+01:00Happy Father's Day!!!Hey, gang!<br />
<br />
Yeah, yeah, I'm a few days early. I just couldn't wait.<br />
<br />
A very special episode, featuring a special guest reader. Enjoy!<br />
<div><object classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000" codebase="http://fpdownload.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,0,0" width="210" height="25" id="mp3playerdarksmallv3" align="middle"> <param name="allowScriptAccess" value="sameDomain" /><param name="movie" value="http://www.podbean.com/podcast-audio-video-blog-player/mp3playerdarksmallv3.swf?audioPath=http://henrygaudet.podbean.com/mf/play/bjqwc/DearGodwIntroOutro.mp3&autoStart=no" /><param name="quality" value="high" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#ffffff" /><param name="wmode" value="transparent" /><embed src="http://www.podbean.com/podcast-audio-video-blog-player/mp3playerdarksmallv3.swf?audioPath=http://henrygaudet.podbean.com/mf/play/bjqwc/DearGodwIntroOutro.mp3&autoStart=no" quality="high" width="210" height="25" name="mp3playerdarksmallv3" align="middle" allowScriptAccess="sameDomain" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" /></embed> </object><br />
<br />
<a style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; font-weight: normal; padding-left: 41px; color: #2DA274; text-decoration: none; border-bottom: none;" href="http://www.podbean.com">Podcast Powered By Podbean</a><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03369502029912013282noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373043879191337083.post-18775843722142159942011-06-02T11:14:00.003+01:002011-06-02T11:16:26.110+01:00At Least There Weren't Any Disney Princesses<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">Just before turning in, my wife likes to check the news. All part of the bedtime ritual. Last night, she spotted a headline that she had to share with me. Apparently, there was some poll rating the top screen siren (their words, not mine) of all time, and Jessica Rabbit topped the list. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">Okay. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">Seemed like an unusual choice to me, but my wife thought it was downright weird, and I think she thought that it was weird that I didn’t think it was weirder. “She’s a cartoon. You know that, right? A cartoon. She’s not real.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">I looked over the list. Hayworth, Hepburn, Monroe. All the usual suspects, and a toon.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">I’ve been accused from time to time of being the devil’s advocate, mostly by my wife, but it's a popular opinion. Now I’m not saying that’s true, but I should probably mention that I am on infernal retainer.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">“Well, she’s not any less real than anyone on that list. Not to me. They’re all just pictures on a screen. Every last one of 'em. Jessica’s just a little more… stylized.” </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">After all, the whole siren thing is a bit of a cartoon. These aren’t real women. They’re caricatures. Go on, tell me Marilyn Monroe’s not a cartoon!</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">So sure, why not? Why not let the most cartoonish lead the pack? After all, that’s what she was made for, to be The Siren, every smouldering Hollywood starlet that ever was, all rolled up and crammed into that impossible silhouette.</span></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">That conversation led, of course, to the “How would you rank them” conversation. I’m not a big fan of musicals or of Hollywood’s Golden Age, so it wasn’t easy. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">For those of you who’d like to play along at home, here’s the list.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">1. Jessica Rabbit<br />
2. Audrey Hepburn<br />
3. Marilyn Monroe<br />
4. Raquel Welch<br />
5. Ursula Andress<br />
6. Elizabeth Taylor<br />
7. Grace Kelly<br />
8. Rita Hayworth<br />
9. Ingrid Bergman<br />
10. Vivien Leigh<span lang="EN-IE"></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">Okay, Ingrid Bergman takes the top spot hands down, and I gave Andress second place for those three seconds walking out of the surf in Dr. No, but after that? Meh. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">I love cartoons. Always have, always will. I just don’t <i>love</i> cartoons. Even the ones that weren’t drawn.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03369502029912013282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373043879191337083.post-43863714656321070792011-05-29T01:42:00.009+01:002011-05-29T18:47:05.967+01:00Galatea In Brass Revisited<span style="font-size: large;">So I finally worked out how to do this without pictures! </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://henrygaudet.podbean.com/2011/05/28/galatea-in-brass/"><br />
</a></span><br />
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<div><object align="middle" classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000" codebase="http://fpdownload.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,0,0" height="25" id="mp3playerdarksmallv3" width="210"> <param name="allowScriptAccess" value="sameDomain" /><param name="movie" value="http://www.podbean.com/podcast-audio-video-blog-player/mp3playerdarksmallv3.swf?audioPath=http://henrygaudet.podbean.com/mf/play/nczhp9/GalateainBrasswIntro.mp3&autoStart=no" /><param name="quality" value="high" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#ffffff" /><param name="wmode" value="transparent" /><embed src="http://www.podbean.com/podcast-audio-video-blog-player/mp3playerdarksmallv3.swf?audioPath=http://henrygaudet.podbean.com/mf/play/nczhp9/GalateainBrasswIntro.mp3&autoStart=no" quality="high" width="210" height="25" name="mp3playerdarksmallv3" align="middle" allowScriptAccess="sameDomain" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer" /></embed> </object><br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.podbean.com/" style="border-bottom: none; color: #2da274; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; font-weight: normal; padding-left: 41px; text-decoration: none;">Podcast Powered By Podbean</a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03369502029912013282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373043879191337083.post-57199146573552960862011-05-25T01:35:00.000+01:002011-05-25T01:35:01.921+01:00Galatea In Brass<span style="font-size: large;">I've finally got some original fiction here for you.<br />
<br />
<br />
Enjoy!</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxa7KWQj7wYlyEYI72PYccLlk40he9jEmnWK2qQBbZedpLmsm9GZgAiv-k_ibxblai590m8OBhMtXtcFX3c5Q' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><span style="font-size: large;"> </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03369502029912013282noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373043879191337083.post-10483170689178981612011-05-03T11:37:00.000+01:002011-05-03T11:37:23.790+01:00Just a Guy<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">“Osama Bin Laden’s dead.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">To be honest, I was expecting something like “Good morning” or “The kettle’s just boiled.” Instead, my wife greeted me with “Osama Bin Laden’s dead.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">They found him and they killed him. I sat down with my wife and we did the tour of 24 hour news channels. Of course, everyone was covering it and had been for hours, but it all came back to this seven word soundbyte. They found him and they killed him. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">I saw reports from New York, of celebrants cheering in the streets at Ground Zero. All things considered, I suppose it was fairly restrained, somewhere between a touchdown dance and “Ding Dong the Witch Is Dead.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">Cheering a death, even this one, doesn’t sit right with me, but I get it. This is the man we hold ultimately responsible for the attacks on September 11<sup>th</sup>. This is the mastermind who took 3000 lives and turned the world upside down, the man who set the events of the past decade in motion. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">I get it, but I can’t share it. I keep thinking to myself, “He’s just a guy.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">In our minds, we made him into some sort of super villain, a Blofeld for the new millennium. It’s easy to imagine him in his secret mountain hideaway, directing the fall of the Western World from the shadows, with a legion of loyal agents ready to act on his orders at a moment’s notice. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">Instead, we find a man living in isolation and relative comfort hiding under his hunters’ collective nose, a man whose contribution to the struggle had become largely symbolic. To his followers, he was an inspiration. His continued existence, a confirmation that the enemy can be defied. For those enemies, he had become a ghost, a boogieman. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">The death of Osama Bin Laden will not slow the operations of terrorist groups like Al Qaeda. In fact, as a martyr, he may very well continue to serve as a powerful symbolic leader. The recent events in the Middle East are likely to do more to harm Al Qaeda, revealing peaceful uprisings and popular revolts as more effective instruments of change. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">His death does nothing to slow the actions of terrorist organizations, and yet the order was given. Had to be given. Osama Bin Laden has enormous symbolic power in America as well. He was the Big Bad Wolf, the monster lurking in the dark. The dragon had to be slain.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">Given the choice, I would have preferred to see him captured. I would have seen him stand trial and convicted and punished, not out of devotion to the rule of law, but to reveal him as Just a Guy. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">Not a Monster. Not a Giant. Just a man. One who committed unjustifiable acts and was made to pay for them. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">That didn’t happen. Instead, they found him and they killed him. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-IE">I won’t mourn his passing. I won’t celebrate either. For me, this is a somber and solemn moment, to reflect on the death of some guy I never met, and what that means for those of us who are still here.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03369502029912013282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373043879191337083.post-9031005075774329252011-05-02T13:07:00.000+01:002011-05-02T13:07:30.943+01:00Words To Live By<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Ak5urvj_q-Dx4H2C_1I9U4LT6fIDnH-NF1l2tJy-MlX5pv7ddTFZb17ZnmQa63FoNUwjmPNLZOP_Ri-dA5rQJX4N__CLplg4hBSXiLDr65-NtFMVXmucCTCJiPociP6RL93lACZCXlGd/s1600/captain-america.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Ak5urvj_q-Dx4H2C_1I9U4LT6fIDnH-NF1l2tJy-MlX5pv7ddTFZb17ZnmQa63FoNUwjmPNLZOP_Ri-dA5rQJX4N__CLplg4hBSXiLDr65-NtFMVXmucCTCJiPociP6RL93lACZCXlGd/s320/captain-america.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03369502029912013282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373043879191337083.post-91067973278936440052011-04-22T22:29:00.000+01:002011-04-22T22:29:16.398+01:00Should<span style="font-size: large;">I was hoping to have something new for you by now. This isn't exactly new, but the reading is, so that counts, right?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Right?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Ah well, old, new or something somewhere between, I hope you enjoy.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz7m3erCJzfH0Q8vja8pdEpUXBlD8OuAHP32S6ZorO2xsHjWGJrXsGzROvUHh3b1CjjVSDWdMC2QVpmZVNYZQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03369502029912013282noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373043879191337083.post-31273893862628890512011-04-04T20:41:00.001+01:002011-04-04T20:42:44.056+01:00This Is a Test<span style="font-size: large;">It's no secret that I'm a fan of audio fiction and radio drama. I've decided I'd like to make the shift from spectator (auditator?) to participant, and so I've taken my first timid steps in that direction. After I work my way through the basics of sound editing, I hope to have a story for you, but in the meantime, I've been playing with this short demo:</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dyVUdTP1C48SPxzGfjxwp_YfenU5TMt7eWZMuQTnNitJJOcwjM4u9degbcH0PzmML6J1bMaF_0lgPcG5FKP0w' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03369502029912013282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373043879191337083.post-23857272038206970452011-02-10T00:31:00.004+00:002011-02-10T08:37:52.037+00:00When the Going Gets Tough, the Tough Get Someone Else<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;">Hmm? Sorry, have you been waiting long?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;">Yeah, I haven't done a whole lot of blogging lately. The holidays are partly to blame, along with my resolution to spend more time writing for profit (no offence). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;">So here I am, six weeks into the new year without a single post, and none coming up in the near future.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;">So I did what any good blogger does. I subcontracted.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;">Lucky for me, Rebecca Hosier, my ever so charming and talented niece (steady, fellas - I may not be Daddy, but I do overprotective just fine, thanks) has agreed to help out by sharing a piece of her own. If you're expecting an overexcited teenage dose of celebrity gossip and LoL Cats, guess again. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;">Enjoy</span></div><div style="border-color: -moz-use-text-color -moz-use-text-color windowtext; border-style: none none solid; border-width: medium medium 1pt; padding: 0cm 0cm 1pt;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="border: medium none; line-height: 200%; padding: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: black; line-height: 200%;">The Israeli and Palestinian Conflict</span></b></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;">by Rebecca Hosier</span><br />
<br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;">If you watch the news at all you have probably heard that something is going on over in Israel. You may not know specifics, but you vaguely remember hearing that something bad is happening. There has been fighting over Israel, former Palestine, for decades. It seems the media only covers half the story. Let’s take a look at the rest of it. Let us have a peek the injustices happening on the other side of the wall. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;">One thing you may not have heard much about is the separation wall. The separation wall is an eight meter high wall that stretches for 403 miles, weaving in and out of Palestinian territory. The U.N. created a green line that the wall was supposed to follow. It would fairly split the country in half. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;">The wall is only 20% on the green line. This said wall is supposed to protect the Israeli people; sadly it does much more than that. The wall divides family property, separates brother from brother and farmer from field. Also if your house is within fifty feet of the wall you are in risk of having it demolished. If your house is still standing you are then at risk of being shot at from the soldiers stationed on the wall. Tell me how this is protection. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;">In the states we take water for granted. We take long showers, we leave the faucet on while brushing our teeth and doing the dishes. But what does it matter? We won’t run out of water. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;">That is not the case in Palestine. Most of the water sources are on the Israeli side of the wall, so the Palestinians must buy the water. Each house has big barrels on the roof for water storage. The family will get only enough water to fill the number of barrels in which they own. If this isn’t bad enough there is no schedule for when the water is delivered. So when the water runs out it is possible the family will have to go days without water for showers, dishes or laundry, things we do daily without thinking about.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;">Medical care is something else we as Americans take for granted. If we aren’t feeling well then we just call up the doctor’s office and set up an appointment. It is that easy. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;">In one refugee camp, Ida camp, there is one doctor. He is there for six days a week for six hours a day and that is all. He has eleven thousand possible people to care for. If you were in need of emergency care and had to go to a hospital you would need to go to Israel. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;">To do that you’d need to go through checkpoints. Checkpoints are places between Israel and Palestine. They are manned by soldiers that check for the correct papers before they let you pass. Checkpoints are also for protection, to make sure nothing or no one “suspicious” goes into Israel. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;">Without the right papers you have no hope of passing through. Even with the right papers it is possible access will be denied. If the soldiers manning that checkpoint are having a bad day they are allowed to take it out on you by not letting you through. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;">Because of this dozens of babies are born at checkpoints every year. There are villages that because of checkpoints emergency response time has gone from ten minutes to one hundred and ten minutes. In some places at night it is impossible to have any emergency response because the checkpoints close. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: black; font-size: large;">Now you have heard some of the injustices happening, injustices that have become part of the Palestinian’s daily lives. Should any human being be forced to live this way? Organizations, such as World Council of Churches and Amnesty International, help the many people who are living under oppression. What can you do to help people all over the world who are mistreated and oppressed? </span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03369502029912013282noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-373043879191337083.post-69572779285535074152010-11-22T14:14:00.000+00:002010-11-22T14:14:27.857+00:00No It's Not New, But It's New To Here<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">We're creeping up on the holiday season, which means I get to recycle old material. Here's a bit I did a couple years back. Still holds up and I'm still in the same place. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">Enjoy!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b> </b></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Happy. . . Thursday?</b></span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">We’re deep into November now.<span> </span>There’s a bite in the wind and daylight has become scarce.<span> </span>The bowl in the kitchen with all the Halloween sweets is out of chocolate and jellies, down to the chalky bits that no one wants.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">November is a slightly homesick time for me.<span> </span>A few years back, I moved from Pennsylvania to Ireland.<span> </span>By now, Ireland is Home, but November is always a time to think of Back Home.<span> </span>This used to be a time for high school football with the marching band soundtrack, of hard frost and dead leaves crunching underfoot, a time for complaining about Christmas displays up too early, just like they were last year.<span> </span>And of course, it’s time for Thanksgiving.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">It’s hard to describe to outsiders just why Thanksgiving is such a big deal.<span> </span>There’s no presents, no costumes, no fireworks.<span> </span>It’s just dinner with the extended family, sort of a Christmas dress rehearsal.<span> </span>But it does matter.<span> </span>It’s one of our biggest holidays, and from the outside, it can be hard to see why.<span> </span>We’ll eat some turkey, cart out our family dysfunction for the annual outburst, and fall asleep watching Home Alone on TV.<span> </span>True enough, but it still doesn’t scratch the surface of what the day’s all about.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Every year, my wife suggests that we do Thanksgiving here, and every year I say thanks but no. Thanksgiving is not a holiday that travels well.<span> </span>For me, the day is about community, one of the few things my country does together.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">Most days, America doesn’t feel like a single place.<span> </span>California doesn’t have much in common with New York, and less with Kentucky.<span> </span>We’re a nation of subcultures, divided by ethnicity, religion, geography, politics, and personal taste, but Thanksgiving belongs to all of us, and it looks the same in Portland as it does in Boston.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">When folks here ask about Thanksgiving, they try to compare it to Christmas, but that comparison just doesn’t hold up.<span> </span>Dinner menus aside, Thanksgiving is not Christmas.<span> </span>Yuletide traditions stateside vary from one state to the next, one town to the next, even one family to the next.<span> </span>When my Irish December doesn’t match up with my own ghosts of Christmas-past, I can adapt without feeling out of place.<span> </span>I’d face the same compromises anywhere, even in my own home town.<span> </span>In this house, we’ve managed to keep traditions from both sides of the Atlantic, even adding a few that are all our own.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">That doesn’t work with Thanksgiving.<span> </span>There are no local traditions to integrate.<span> </span>Thanksgiving is exclusively American, and trying to do it on this side of the Atlantic can only remind of a community that doesn’t exist here.<span> </span>Friends and family may wish me “Happy Thanksgiving,” but they aren’t marking the day themselves.<span> </span>They’re off to work, just like me.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: large;">My wife asked me again this year, reminding me that our son’s old enough to learn about his American roots.<span> </span>I though about it, but I still said no.<span> </span>For my family to experience Thanksgiving, we will have to visit America.<span> </span>All that I can offer here is turkey dinner on a Thursday.</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03369502029912013282noreply@blogger.com0